Live to Fight Another Day
by HarlequinDreams
Summary: The forces of the British Empire round up the battered hostages M had imprisoned, but an enemy is among them. Oneshot. Alternate ending.


_Live to Fight __Another__ Day_

_By Lynn_

_Summary: The British forces round up the hostages that M had imprisoned, but there is an enemy among them._

_Disclaimer: _The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is owned by Alan Moore, Kevin O'Neill, K.J. Anderson, and 20th Century Fox. I am not making any money from this writing, and I am not attempting to do so. I am merely a fan, writing fanfiction.

* * *

"There may still be some that didn't make it out before the explosion. Hold off boarding for a few more minutes, gents."

"But Nemo said--"

"I don't give a damn what some darkie said. I am your commanding officer, and I have given you orders!"

The conversation floated through the air without concern for who heard, but the far-off League showed no sign of having heard the insult said against one of their own. Someone nearer the officer and his subordinate, however, did, even if he was in no condition to understand the words that were said. All he knew was that he had heard voices. British voices.

Nearly every muscle in the man's body ached, and he was aware that his left arm was not responding to any mental command that he tried to give. His right hand shifted, helping him push up and break through the layer of rubble that had fallen on top of him. Somehow, possibly through sheer will, he had managed to keep himself mostly tucked under pieces of stone that had not completely crumbled when the ruined keep of the mastermind James Moriarty had been attacked from within with bombs, avoiding the fate of being crushed to death. The fact that he had been by one of the outer walls when the Mongol castle had collapsed might have helped at least slightly. Blood was freely left on the stone that had served as a brace for his good hand, and the man's clothes were in tatters. Even without the use of his left arm, the jacket he wore, in the style of a German officer, was easily shed, though much of his cotton shirt underneath the jacket came off with the effort as well. The brown pants he wore would stay up, but there was only slight use for them. They were badly torn, and the legs beneath the cloth were equally abused. The battered man's breath was visible from the cold air around him. His world spun when he tried to take a step forward.

"Mr. Bond! A survivor!" An observant British soldier called to his commander and hurried over to keep the staggering man on his feet. Carefully, mindful of the multitude of wounds on the other, the young solider helped his charge to the portly, mustachioed Englishman.

"Name?" Campion Bond asked.

A few heavy breaths were taken by the wounded hostage before he answered, his English as broken as any kidnapped worker's. "Dieter Mauer. I am," he paused to search for the word, "a specialist in," another pause, "explosives." Bond's eyes traveled over the man. He certainly looked worse for the wear, and many of the wounds were too old to be caused by the blast. The sharp, deep restraint marks on his wrists lent credence to his story, as did the burns and scars that the Englishman could see on the man's chest and arms. A short walk around him showed the scratch marks that ran across his back. Really, Campion had to say, he seemed to have taken more abuse than any of the other workers! "My son…" the injured man said quietly, looking around. "My boy! Those monsters killed him." The pale eyes that glittered in the reflection of the sun on snow had gone wide and frantic, as though recalling horrors that most would find absolutely unspeakable.

"Take him and the rest of the hostages to the ship," Bond ordered the underling still supporting the other. "We'll search for a little while longer to see if there are any other survivors, and then we'll ship out."

Over a half an hour passed before the young soldier returned, this time free of his charge. He stared at his commander for several moments without saying a word, but his uncertainty was written across his features.

"Will you spit it out, Mundy, or do you prefer to gawk at me like an imbecile, expecting me to read your mind?"

Mundy, the young soldier, was momentarily surprised by the sharp address, but he quickly regained himself and spoke hurriedly. "Mr. Bond, I gave the hostages to the medics, to take care of, sir. Mauer, though… He said something to the others. In German. I couldn't understand it."

"Probably a greeting. Or saying that they were lucky to have been saved by us!"

"He sounded angry, though."

"German always sounds that way, you idiot."

"Yes, sir," Mundy said quietly, still uncertain. He wouldn't press the point, but he was sure that he'd heard the word "death" in whatever Mauer had said. It certainly hadn't sounded to him like he was thanking God for them not being dead or telling the others not to worry about death, though.

As a medic poked and prodded at his presently useless arm and said something about the limb being likely to regain its mobility and not needing amputation, the pale-eyed Dante Moran stared at the wall of the British ship. Too easy. Then again, he reminded himself with an inward smirk, not one British soldier had ever seen the face of the Fantom's bloodthirsty second-in-command and lived to tell about it, the former prisoners were too terrified of him to out him, and the so-called League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was nowhere to be found.

Now, if only another medic would have luck saving the life of James Moriarty, whom the British commander had found in the snow with a bullet in his back that had just missed the heart. The fools. They wanted to try the mastermind for his crimes. Dante almost laughed.

M and his lieutenant were not beaten yet!


End file.
